Through the Looking Glass
by wretchedheartbreak
Summary: Canada despises America's relationship with England. America's wildness is controllable only by Canada. A psychological, war fanfic that will blow your mind. CanxAm with some USxUK.
1. The Glass

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all.**

**Title: Through the Looking Glass**

**Background Information: Set and geared towards psychological trauma, "Through the Looking Glass" is a fanfiction that focuses on AmericaxCanada, but whether you see it as more than brotherly, as well as if you see USxUK is up to you. It follows the events of WWI, along with some twists in the timeline which will be explained the more these chapters progress. It also alternately switches points of view between the two characters to be able to provide further insight for their actions. This will be confusing at first with all the "time skips", but you'll get used to it. **

**The characters are of course, canons, in that I don't use their real human names and stick, basically, to what they are called in the anime/manga. Since no one seems to use their nation names any more, I thought, why not be a rebel and be shot?~ Their personalities and how they are acted out are the same as well, but their inner thoughts may differ due to my different interpretation of them.**

**More summary information will be added as more chapters are added. Thanks for reading!~**

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><p>"<strong>I'm home.<strong>"

Nibbling on his lower lip in blatant nervousness, the platinum blonde shuffled into the bright home that had housed him for a few decades now. A white polar bear in one hand – so named Kumajiro from a children's fairy tale he'd happened to pick up – he clutched it to his chest as though it was a lifeline, as though it was the only thing keeping him afloat in the metaphorical sea of dread he found himself wallowing in. Indigo eyes darted to and fro as he peeked shyly over the corner, his tiny mind listing all the possibilities as to the sheer silence of the place. Had… there been some sort of mishap? No, no, there couldn't have been. Not only was the house spotless, but Britain – his caretaker – was one of the most admirable, sturdy, strongest men he had ever had the pleasure of meeting, so categorizing him as someone who would have gone down without a fight was highly unlikely.

What then, pray tell, was the reason for the lack of noise in the finely decorated mansion?

Little Canada ventured on forward, his pale flesh tapping subtly against the intricately woven patterned carpets that heralded the path into the spacious living room. It was exactly as he had left it, with two crimson loveseats facing off against each other in parallels, an ornately carved wooden coffee table situated in between them. A myriad of colourful flowers adorned the center within an equally expensive looking vase, brown to match the tint of the desk. A chandelier hung above the entire scenario, sparkling as the glass crystal reflected the light that sparsely entered the room, hooded through musky curtains. The body-sized windows glittered dully, far from outshining the minute bulbs that were screwed into the chandelier. At night, these would twinkle so beautifully that whenever he would be spared a fairy tale from his caretaker, it would remind him of his star-gazing treks with the blonde and his twin brother.

But speaking of the former, where were they?

The male embraced his polar bear closer to his chest, a nibbling sensation in his heart that he couldn't quite identify, despite it being a feeling that he felt almost all the time – paranoia, one could even call it, although this was unbeknownst to him at that time. He had checked the living room first, because this was where the two would have most likely assembled, after studiously _ignoring _him as he had left the house that day for some fresh air. Honestly, even within his undeveloped little mind, he could tell that it was not what one could call "recommended" for a parent to leave their child undefended for themselves, but Britain seemed to have no problem whatsoever with that, bidding him only a quick "good luck" before chuckling at something Canada's brother had said.

But… if he thought about it, he didn't mind. Sure, in the beginning, it made him squirm to know that there would be someone else under the blonde's care. What if it was someone mean? What if it was a bully? What if he hated his very guts? What if…?

All were thoughts that should have been unhealthy and particularly unwell for such a tender age, but to Canada, it was all normal. Of course they would be, why wouldn't they be? It was to his knowledge that everyone acted accordingly to their own specifications, with Britain being a cook of lousy proportions (of course, this he would never have the courage to say for fear of being abandoned), and with his brother being a loud-mouthed kid who sometimes, was just a little to brash for his liking. But brothers were brothers, and he was glad to have a companion around his age, even if sometimes, said companion didn't always pay attention to him.

But that was normal sibling stuff, right?

Despite their fighting, Canada was still insanely worried as to the absences of his charge and fellow sibling. Kumajiro remained glued to his side as the clumsy body clambered up the stairs, desperately feeling a thudding pain in his chest as, room after room, he noted with disappointment the lack of his family. After checking four rooms, he finally made his way towards the largest, grandest frame in the entire house – Britain's room. They – America and himself – were not forbidden to enter the room, but they were instructed to at least have express permission before bursting in (which of course, his brother dutifully ignored). Here, the child bowed his head, nibbling on his lip, eyes darting sideways in uncertainty. Would it be wrong to check? Thoughts of possible (paranoid) punishment entered his thoughts, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his whole frame visibly shaking.

'_N-no… I don't want Britain to get m-mad at me…_'

Although he knew his caretaker was not one to resort to (much) violence, he still felt… uneasy. He couldn't enter… but he had to. To check, yes, to check is all. And if, by any chance, Britain did happen to be inside, he would sincerely apologize and take his leave like a good child, hoping against all odds that he would not be yelled at for breaking the rules.

He hoped, gulping.

Taking a deep breath and hugging the bear to his chest (which, at this point, had it been a real creature, would have died from suffocation), Canada groaned in effort as tiny, chubby fingers reached out to the golden doorknob, his toes and feet extended to their possible maximum – but to no avail. His fingers twiddled uselessly, the object of his desire literally out of his grasp, but in a last ditch effort, he propelled his small body upwards with a jump… only to fail and land on his tiny behind.

'_O-ow…_'

It hated him, didn't it? That was the only explanation for it. The door knob hated him, and ignored him the same way Britain sometimes did when America was around, screaming his little butt off. It just… didn't like him.

Normal thoughts, right? Right.

Sniffles came to him suddenly, and Canada sucked in a deep breath before letting salty tears stream down his chubby cheeks. A blown-out wail emerged from his voice box, and the polar bear he had so firmly grasped now rolled on over to his side facedown, his hands finding solace in another location. Curled fists systematically wiped away the water droplets that streamed down his face, his little mind frustrated at why he had so suddenly cried. He couldn't… _understand._ America never cried – well, maybe he did, but he tried not to show it, as compared to some people – but he… he was the crybaby of the bunch. He was so easy to tease and frankly, he didn't know _why_ the tears came to him so much more easily than they did to his twin. That, coupled with the possibility that he would never again see his family was too much of a heavy burden on him, and he had sunk into the only other place that a normal child's mind would retreat to: depression.

He didn't know how long he'd sat there, bawling his eyes out thinking '_I'm alone, I'm alone, but I don't want to be alone!_'', before the male found slender arms wrapped in a white fabric – long sleeves – snaking around his torso, and he jolted, head swivelling in a panic. '_Oh no, oh no, it might be the people who took brother and Britain!_' Muscles tensed and flailed uselessly, all the while screaming, "**N-no, l-leave me a-alone! Wh-when brother and Br-britain come back, y-you're going to b-be in tr-trouble!**" But the arms around him showed no sign of relinquishing him, and his screams grew louder in decibel, squirming and squirming until finally…

_Hic._

_Hic._

_Hic._

A chuckle came from the culprit behind him, and upon hearing the familiar, heart-warming tone, he immediately ceased his fruitless attempts at liberty. "Calm down, Canada, and take a deep breath. You have the hiccups now, pet." Canada sniffled, palms of his hand wiping away the gross snot that clung to his face, before he was turned around to face the "culprit". In all his blonde glory, Britain grinned at him with that smile of his that always calmed the child down. With a sigh of relief at the familiar figure, a bed of platinum blonde hair buried itself in the adult's chest, (indiscreetly) wiping the boogers on his face, miniscule hands fisting tufts of the blonde's shirt, hiccupping sobs only slightly muffled by the human contact. Slender digits danced through the child's hair, followed by a soothing voice, laced with confusion. "There, there. What's gotten into you? Why are you here by yourself?"

The words were questioning, but the male felt his muscles relax quickly, feeling a sense of drowsiness accompany the newfound calm. Pale eyelids slowly flickered shut, his brain barely adding two and two together to form coherent words. "**I-I thought y-you were t-taken away… I-I was s-so sc-scared…**" Those were his last words before a feeling of floating on clouds descended upon him, followed by a chuckle from his caretaker. The sounds of "Silly goose, I wouldn't leave just like that!" reached his ears, before unconsciousness took him away.

Who cared, as long as he had these strong arms of comfort and love around him? Who cared about anything else as long as they would always be a family, as long as there was love?

* * *

><p>When he awoke, Canada felt… disoriented, to put it lightly. Black spots danced in his vision, and for a second, he thought that bugs had somehow invaded his brain by crawling into his ears and had now somehow made their way into his eyes. He absolutely jumped in fright, running around wildly while screaming and waving his arms like a madman in an attempt to pry out the heinous bugs from his body system.<p>

"Canada!"

Even the familiar voice didn't stop the panic that was rising in the child's frame. "**I can't s-see, I c-can't see!**" Hysterical, on the verge of tears, the male stomped on his bed in circles, before he felt himself fly – '_I-I can f-fly…?_' – off the surface of the earth, his stomach dropping to the ground as gravity attempted its hold on him. Accustomed arms pulled him into an embrace, a soft lullaby being hummed from the owner's lips, as his fingers strayed through his platinum blonde locks, cradling him back and forth for a few minutes until his hysterics subsided. "Shh, shh, you just stood up too fast. Calm down."

He was _highly _doubtful of that, but sure enough, the bugs skittered away, and blinking rapidly, uncertainly, Canada found himself with a clear line of vision once more, a wide smile scattering on his features in amusement and amazement at the feat. However, this happiness was short-lived as he felt a tugging feeling from his chest, his young mind reeling back to the few hours before when he'd just about collapsed in his caretaker's arms. Shyly, he drew idle circles with a shaky finger on the blonde's chest, shaking his head in rejection of what he was about to ask, thinking it was much too stupid now. Of _course _they hadn't just disappeared like that; they wouldn't do that to him.

However, the sudden silence alarmed the blonde for a different purpose, as he now slowly lifted the child's chin, indigo hues now meeting emerald ones. "Canada, pet, what's the matter? Are you feeling sick?" "**Mmmf…**" he muttered, shaking his head and clamping his lips shut. If Britain knew what was wrong with him, he'd hate him, or maybe even laugh at him… or maybe even both. No, not now, not especially when he was in such a good mood! He couldn't – wouldn't – ruin it for them by bugging him with inane thoughts like some wannabe kidnapper who'd taken the two most important people in his life.

A sigh left the blonde's lips, before Canada felt himself being set down on the blue and purple quilted mattress, a king-sized for both him and his brother to share. He could still remember the day when Britain had it specially imported from France (he always wondered why the man would flinch and have that rather odd look on his face whenever he or America would praise him for having the handiwork done so finely), and both siblings had positively pounced on it in delight. It adhered to both of their not-so-classy classiness; the blue side, being America's, had the picture of a brown teddy bear, while his, being the purple side, depicted a polar bear splayed out in a white winter in that it was almost invisible. His head tilted sideways, a questioning, pouting look in his eyes at the sudden leave of embrace. Oh, but had that been so warm…

Britain kneeled down next to him, so that they were eye-to-eye, a stern look in his eyes that was usually reserved for when his twin broke something in the house (which honestly, occurred just about every day for at least two objects), and the child cringed, arms instinctively shielded over his arms, as he curled inwardly into his own body. No, no, he hadn't entered the forbidden room, he could swear it! He couldn't even reach the door knob, for Pete's sake, and he'd fallen before he could accomplish the feat! What would he do to him…? He didn't… he hadn't… he couldn't have…

He was dead. He would be disowned, kicked out of the house and forced to watch the family in shame.

For _shame_.

"Listen, pet, you haven't done anything wrong, so relax, will you? I won't yell at you, you know… actually, hell, I don't even know what I would yell at you for. Just relax, yes? Always remember, pet, that I lo-"

An obnoxious, ear-shattering scream pierced the flimsy silence between them, and the two absolutely jumped in their skins, before a white streak burst through into the room, screaming shrilly with wild abandon. There was something in his little five-year-old mind that thought of the logic: if someone screams, scream… which he had proceeded to do. Now with two toddlers shouting their butts off in the enclosed space, the blonde looked like he was about to blow a conniption. Reaching out, he deftly caught the white streak with practiced arms, cradling it in his arms with a mixture of resignation and irritation on his features. "America! What are you _doing_?"

The quiet voice somehow cut straight through the piercing cries, and the platinum blonde with dazzling blue eyes grinned impishly at the older gentleman, waving his teddy bear around and smacking the Briton in the face… repeatedly. "Ouch, ouch, America, calm down!" "Neh, neh, Britain, come play hide-and-seek with me!" The male frowned, before sighing and massing the bridge of his nose in exasperation; this was a scene he'd experienced far too many times to really give it a second thought. "Fine, but would you _kindly _explain to me why it is you were screaming for?" "'Coz I felt like it!" The child's face was one of pure innocence, with not so much as a hint of guilt for his actions that had just about given the two former residents in the room respective heart attacks.

But that was how he always was.

"America, you do _not_ just go around screaming your bloody head off when you so choose!" the male grumbled, slowly walking out of the room with the child in tow. "I ought to let you know, you remind me of this one time way back when…-"

His voice faded as the two left the room, leaving the indigo-eyed infant to his lonesome, face expressionless as he watched the departure of the two. He stood still, a statue, devoid of emotions from the outside. His thoughts swirled within his mind like a violent storm, eyes unblinking.

Britain was about to say something, something even his little mind could deem _important_. It was something he had probably needed to hear, but did not. They were about to have a father-son moment, but did not. They were about to share words of wisdom, but did not.

And he knew it was all America's fault.

Wasn't it always?

Canada's head bowed down as though in prayer, his eyes scrunched up as he prepared himself for the onslaught of tears, which slowly trickled down his puffy cheeks, reddening his eyes. His arms wrapped themselves in a vice-like grip around Kumajiro, just about squeezing the stuff out of the bear. His whole frame shook. '_B-but why…?_', he would ask to himself and anyone and no one in particular. He didn't know _why_, but every time America came bursting in like that (and no, this hadn't been the first time, far from it) and took the emerald eyes' gaze from him, he felt fire within his stomach and chest, a burning feeling that would cause him to see crimson and throw a tantrum… which he usually did. It made him want to yell and scream and just punch something, made him want to tear out a certain _someone's _hair out and break a few porcelain vases here and there. It made him want to just squeeze his fist so hard until something happened.

Something, anything to rid himself of the squirming worm in his stomach when these occurrences played by.

But he never did. Never would.

Never _could_.

For a simple reason. For a simple reason that came in the form of the elder blonde gentleman. He could never show such an ugly side to him, could never show him that he could be as violent as those war history books that were often told to them at night as fairy tales, as bedtime stories. He could never disappoint that patient man whom he undoubtedly loved and cared for deeply like a father, the only father he would ever had. But most importantly, he would never show him that he could be as chaotic as America could be.

A playful scream from downstairs trespassed in his incomprehensible, confused, muddled thoughts.

But sometimes, it was just so dang hard not to be.

A smile played on his lips before he took a deep breath, jumping off the bed and chasing after the two.

* * *

><p>"So… before we were so <em>rudely <em>interrupted", the Briton started tiredly, before taking a glance at the smirking blue-eyed angel, "I wanted to tell you, we had a surprise for you!"

"**A-a s-surprise…?**" A sense of elation filled him, and the smile on his face grew into a genuine grin, laced with nervousness that came with anything that had to do with, well, America. "**Wh-what f-for?**"

"You'll see! Now come here, you little bugger, and close your eyes."

Nodding obediently, his insatiable curiosity befitting of a five-year-old, he was overwhelmed by the possibility of having something to himself. Usually, when he was bestowed upon with a gift, it was reserved for both of them – both of the brothers all in one go. But now… could it really be? Was it a gift that would be solely meant only for himself? The feeling of greed flooded him, but it was normal, only normal, of course. It wasn't bad or anything that he wanted something – _anything _– for himself, even just this one time. Finally, maybe, he would have something America did not have!

… But then again, if his brother wanted it, wanted one as well, there was no doubt that Britain would purchase a similar trinket for the twin. He bit his lip; would there really be nothing unique to him, unique for him? Was he really just… a second fiddle now?

No, no, he mustn't think that way. Shaking his head clear of the heinous thoughts, instead focusing on whatever shiny new toy it was that his caretaker had procured for him, Canada shone a bright white smile at the elder man, before blinking his eyes shut and feeling a warmth from his tiny curled right fist as the gentleman took hold of him, leading him towards wherever the said "surprise" would be. He gladly followed along without any hesitation; if there was anywhere he could go with anyone without feeling even one percent insecure, it was Britain. Despite some earlier misgivings after having adopted someone else who seemed to greedily hound the man's attention, there was still no doubt that he always had a warm and fuzzy feeling whenever the other was around. He was sure it was a feeling that would never change. His feelings for his brother on the other hand…

A spark of electricity – or at least, that's what it felt like – short-circuited his body for a second as another warmth enveloped his other free hand. Blackened sight wasn't particularly helpful in investigating the culprit, but he needn't disobey Britain this time, for the presence had announced itself before he could so much as open his mouth to ask who it was. From his left came the bright-eyed beauty's cry of, "Let's go, Canada! Oh man, you're gonna love this!"

The boy's smile faded a tad, slipping from its not-so-façade. Immediately, a wave of regret and just… something _bad _washed over him. He was just so… innocent, so nice, and so happy all the time, something he wished he could be. Maybe then, if he imitated his loud brother more, Britain would also pay him more attention. But if he looked at it, there had been numerous times when he'd attempted to do so, each attempt only ending in a failure that was so embarrassing that he would need Kumajiro's help in order for him to go to sleep at nght. Still, regardless of his own catastrophes, he really shouldn't have taken it out on his brother – at least, that's what he thought. After all, America had always been the louder, more dominant one, while he was the quiet, more reserved one. He wouldn't – honestly, _couldn't_ – change that, and in the end, his sibling meant well.

It was just so disconcerting to be overshadowed sometimes… or most of the time.

Nevertheless, it was obvious that this time, even America was excited for him, so he would go along with it. After all, who could resist a surprise?

All the child could hear from then on were footsteps that echoed softly beside him; one set heavier than the ones on his left, which were more erratic and excited. He felt like that Alice in one of the rarer bedtime stories that they would be graced with, Alice in Wonderland, or something like that. Beyond the door, there would be something for him, something new and exciting, something… _his_. What adventures would await him?

… Well, as long as they weren't too dangerous or too confusing. He disliked puzzles, always throwing away jigsaw pieces without stealing a glance at them. But even as he did this, Britain would always comment on his "wasted potential", to which he had absolutely no clue what the man was talking about. True, if he actually tried, he could put together a 100-piece jigsaw puzzle in ten minutes, but everyone could do that. It was just one of the more inane things that again, as if he needed any more reminding, proved him to be no more than normal, a quiet background presence. Something like that was nothing, nothing compared to how America could easily kick a ball about fifty feet in the air until it was invisible; they had probably had to buy about fifty balls by now, much to the man's chagrin.

But at least this surprise would break him free of those thoughts, at least if only for a short while. How exciting.

It was about five minutes before the two by his side ceased, relinquishing their grasps on his chubby fists, which immediately sent him spiralling into slight panic. However, a heavily accented voice came just at the right time before he started hyperventilating. "Here we are, Canada. Open your eyes, love."

Purple eyes widened in disbelief as it towered over him, all meter and a half high of a masterpiece. Cake, frosted with white icing was ceremoniously dotted here and there with crimson dots. The base was the largest circular piece, erecting above itself a smaller, circular piece, and so on and so forth, making up about five layers. At the very top was a miniature statue of himself, just about the palm of his hand, in his baptismal robes. However, it was neither the size nor the magnitude that caught his attention. It was what was decorated around the entire piece.

He could remember it with clarity, that memory that was jogged due to the image that now lay before him. It had been a brief outing in the park; America had strongly _insisted _on leaving the house because the weather had been quite decent. Somewhat grumbling, the Briton had agreed to do so, but only under the condition that he bake some more of his rather _wonderful _scones. When they'd arrived at the park, said scones were dutifully ignored, as America pulled his brother away for a game of soccer – or football, as the male would insist stubbornly – and needless to say, it resulted in a rather large black-eye that was so dark in colour that it should not have existed in that world, as well as a broken arm… both on the Canadian's side. After some grievous fits, Britain had successfully extricated the child from his sibling's grasp (who, at this point, insisted that it was a pretty shade of purple and would make for an excellent bulls-eye target) and brought him to his side, wrapping a makeshift cast around his arm. In fairness, Canada had dismissed it as an accident; they were only having some good, clean (painful) fun, after all! Still, it was an experience he would rather not repeat. Soon enough, thoughts of the incident were forgotten as he lay curled in Britain's arms, whose emerald eyes were carefully watching his brother, who had now thought that trees made for excellent soccer partners and was knocking them down one by one. Just as he was about to drift off into dream world with nothing more than the homey presence around him and a throbbing in his arm, the child felt a slick something cling to his forehead. Sleepily, he reached out his arm to remove the alien, before his eyes widened.

"**Br-Britain, what is th-this?**"

The male glanced down, a small smile echoing on his features. "That, my pet, is a maple leaf. I'm actually a tad surprised there's one around here. It must be an omen, or a sign." Whatever it was, it was magnificent. The shape was just so perfect, even and symmetrical. "Though, it's rather odd. I've never seen that shade of red on that species before." It was crimson, almost blood-red, in contrast to the green or slightly yellowed leaves around them. Nevertheless, to the child, it was pretty. A smile was cast in the direction of the object.

"**Pretty**", he murmured, hugging it close to himself before drifting into something that felt like a euthanasia-induced sleep.

Now, the same shape and color was painted magnificently on the cake, much to the boy's elation. A shriek escaped from his lips, and he just about launched himself at his caretaker's legs, who laughed and matted his hair playfully. "I take it you like it, then. America and I worked on it all night last night." Canada nodded viciously, all of his five-year-old self jumping up and down in excitement and sheer thrill. "**Th-thank you, Britain, v-very m-much! But… wh-why did you m-make it?**" There was a short pause, making him wonder if he had asked the wrong thing. His grasp around the man's legs loosened slightly, feeling as though he had just insulted him and getting himself ready to grovel for forgiveness. Why, oh why, must he always say the wrong things?

Manners had been something engraved into his memory (which America obviously lacked, but he wouldn't judge), and so his mouth opened instinctively to mutter an apology (something he was accustomed to… even when the committed crime was often times, in fact, his brother's fault, but could he really stand up to him? did he have another choice?), before a chuckle interrupted him. A confused look crossed his features as he gazed at the blonde questioningly. "No worries, pet. This is to celebrate your birthday." "**B-birthday?**" A loud voice piped up at that moment, the presence of the other whom he'd forgotten was even there for the silence of it all (it was no wonder it felt like something was missing). "Well, to be more specific, Britain said he got it for ya to celebrate when he adopted you! So, yeah, happy-adoption-into-Britain's-tasteless-and-really-tacky-mansion day, Canada!" The blonde rolled his eyes, waving a finger, chastising him. "Now, now, let's not ruin today."

Canada was absolutely gobsmacked. Despite the bickering exchange, he realized that Britain loved him. Of _course _he did. Otherwise, he would have already been shoved out of the house by now. All his thoughts of insecurity left him at that moment, and he shook his head to himself in disbelief. How he had ever thought that America would always take the spotlight was absolutely wrong. Sure, he did most of the time, but even he had it some of the time… like now! And although it was particularly rare, he would take it. Grinning and turning back to the bickering pair, he once again launched himself at the man's legs. Already distracted by America, the Briton found himself sprawled on the ground from the unbalancing impact. "Ow…", he muttered. But before he had a chance to reprimand the culprit, he found on his chest a small figure of Canada, tears streaming down his cheeks. Harsh words froze on his lips, and he propped himself up on his elbows, a frown burrowing on his face. "Cana-?"

The little boy crawled on further up, wrapping his arms around the male's neck, sniffling. "**Th-thank you, Br-Britain. Brother…**" "… for not making me feel so alone", he wanted to continue, but something clogged up his throat at that moment, and decided against it. Courage, courage… oh, how he lacked it, but this moment… was irreplaceable. He was perfectly content with it, he thought to himself, snuggling and cuddling closer to his caretaker. Slender fingers snaked through his hair comfortingly, followed by a chuckle. "S'fine, love. Today's your day!" Again, the obnoxious voice piped up. "Canada's a crybaby, haha!" "America, be quiet!" "Fine, fine. Say, can we eat it now?" "Let's ask Canada."

The child looked up, his sense of presence having floated in and out from the sheer euphoria of the situation. "**Mmm?**", he asked questioningly. "Are we allowed to eat some cake now?" "**O-oh! Y-yes, of c-course!**" he answered, somewhat embarrassed for his spaciness. "**C-can I cut i-it?**" "Sure thing, love! Now let me just find the- AMERICA!"

A booming voice from the accented male caused him to jump on the man's chest, eliciting a soft "ooph!" from his lips. He had been so engrossed in the moment that he had again neglected the absence of sound in the room, until it was too late. Canada's indigo eyes directed themselves towards where the Briton's own were – towards his cake. Eyes widened in surprise and horror as he glimpsed his twin _climbing _said cake, making it teeter unbelievably unsteadily.

_No. _NO.

As though watching a film strip play before his very own eyes, he grimaced as the cake swayed back and forth like a drunkard, to and fro repeatedly, a playful trick by fate. There and back, it went, before finally, gravity won out. In slow motion, he watched it lean over too much on one end – too much, even he could tell – before it collapsed, splashing against the clean carpet and staining it with white and red blood. It felt as though a hole had appeared below him at that moment, dropping him into it, because his stomach felt as though it was screaming in agony. Frozen in place, he hadn't even contemplated it when Britain had lifted him up and placed him on a nearby velvet chair, muscles too stunned to move, eyes too rigid to notice that his twin was now bathed in icing, in the remnants of his cake. _His _cake.

The blonde made his way over to the child, who had an impish grin on his face, licking his fingers that were now caked with icing. "America, look what you did. You've ruined the cake, and to mention, you're a bloody mess. Come then, we'll give you a shower." He sighed in resignation, picking up the sticky figure who giggled like a madman at his job well done. Clearly, he was amused by the whole situation, still giggling as Britain ushered him out of the room, but not before he waved to his brother, a cheesy smile on his face, caked (no pun intended) with chocolate as he said, "Haha, happy birthday again, Canada! I hope that we can always have fun like this forever!"

But clearly, he was not amused. The child sat still on his spot, eyes glazed over as he surveyed the fallen remnants of his cake. Red coloured his vision, red tinted hate geared towards his twin.

Another year, another moment that should have been his ceremoniously stolen.

Another year, another moment with Britain forcefully pulled away by his twin.

Another year, another moment where he wished he could say something for himself.

Another year, another moment where he wished that he was an only child.

Still in a stupor, his neck gave way, his head bowed down as though in reverence as frozen eyes stared at intricate patterns of the pillow of where he now sat. _Forever_ like this? He'd rather not.

But what choice did he have?

_Forever_.

* * *

><p><strong>SO, this here is going to be my first chaptered fic. This chapter was… fluff, no other way to say it, but it's important to read it because it'll serve as a basis for the future *ahem* events that will occur later on. I portrayed Canada here as… a jealous type who still can't say what he wants to, and if you can't see, his self-esteem has basically gone to the gutters (thanks America!), something he brings on later. But yeah, hope you guys liked this. *.*<strong>

**Reviews and comments are appreciated.~ Need some feedback for the later chaps. 8D**


	2. The Mirror

It was drastically depressing how not a day could pass without some sort of backlash from that cruel thing called fate, but it was something that the platinum blonde had learned to take head-on, a little slice of life that he'd been accustomed to for far too long. After all, being one of the largest, most powerful nations in the world had to have some repercussions in their enormous powers, so why not be one of the people who had at least erected some sort of barriers against this harsh reality? That was the only way he thought of in which one could be able to survive; toughen up, and of course, always, _always _smile.

It had just been a few years prior to one of the largest movement of military power throughout the world, the war that was supposedly brought about to bring to a halt all other wars that might happen. It was _the _World War, whereupon full-scale armadas centering around Europe had mobilized, where just one trigger from an assassination of a certain archduke had caused a chain reaction of catastrophic occurrences within the already tensed-up continent. Truthfully, it was as though that entire place had been wound so tightly by a string, resembling how just _too close _the inhabitants of the region were, as though the imaginary boundaries that divided them were far too fleeting and much too easily ignored. Had they, perhaps been more respectable of each other, had there not been such a movement of worldwide conquest and land expansion, there would perhaps never been such a worldwide emergency that shook the core of every single peoples on the earth. But then again, would that have really sufficed? It seemed as though war was inevitable as soon as humans came into the equation, humans and nations alike that would so greedily do whatever they wished if it was for the sake of expansionism. Why, even though the German tyrants had been quelled quite heavily under the terms of the Treaty of Versailles, their military and industries having become limited and crippled, it wouldn't have been surprising in the least if another one would erupt. What with the still somewhat far-from-stabilized progress in Europe as whole – Britain having suffered some major blows – no one could rest too easily knowing that it was only a matter of time before some gung-ho wannabe took advantage of the messed-up, substantial air in and around Europe, and caused yet another sort of worldwide revolution of which they would probably have to be involved… _again._

It was really quite likely.

America sighed, groaning as he slid his calloused fingers length-wise along his transparent window, travelling them down with zigzag patterns. Yes, he really did believe that the nations in the god-forsaken region called Europe would once again bring calamity upon themselves, and he, as having proclaimed himself quite loudly as "the hero", would probably have to come in once more and save their sorry behinds for what would have felt to be the thousandth time. If anything, had there been a stronger "guard" of sorts within the region itself, then there needn't have been too much worry about his nation's intervention, but given the seemingly declining state of the British empire, he wouldn't put it past them to fail _obscenely _when it came right down to it. It did no good to converse with England, his blonde caretaker from some years ago (a memory he would have much rather shed now than have it embedded forever within his hamburger-loving skull). Despite their "friendly" confrontations, the stubborn-minded prick would absolutely refuse to recognize his reigning supremacy, still considering himself the strongest within the continent. Well, to some extent, perhaps that was true, but there was also such a thing as a power-trip, which the platinum-blonde strongly believed the blonde was on. He clicked his tongue in irritation; mark his words, if somehow Germany got a hold of enough rebels and consolidated its power well enough, it would no doubt give birth to an army that could easily wipe out fragile Europe. With Britain being on such stubborn terms with him, his nose too far-up the ground to notice that with their harsh terms forced upon them by the supposed Treaty, it would surely come as a shock if such a thing happened.

And of course, the following result would be them coming to him, crawling on the ground for some back-up support that he would so "happily" gift them with. Maybe back then, he was more than happy to offer aid to maintain the balance of powers around the world and prevent threats to his own country, but nowadays, Europe was slowly being categorized as something along the lines of a "hopeless cause", both for he and his people alike. He highly doubted he would once again interfere in their internal affairs that they had so stubbornly kept the rest of the world out of; there was absolutely no reward in it for himself. Let them be damned to their demises. After all, they had been able to survive during the pre-war period; why wouldn't they be able to fend for themselves now?

True enough, the possibility of being once more the acclaimed hero would send a rush of adrenaline and excitement within his deadened veins, but it would, to him, only provide a temporary resuscitation of sorts. The thought of gunshots in the distance unnerved him still, despite his "counselling" sessions with his brother, Canada, and he would rather not experience that ice-cold feeling in his gut for more than five minutes at a time. Not only was it a horrible feeling, it also felt as though something inside him had died, reeking of the shallowness of bodies that were much too abundant on the battlefield. His final statement would have had to be something along the lines of complete refusal of the entrance of any more wars in Europe; to hell with Britain, France and whomever else. They had to work out their problems for themselves. And they had told him he was the baby? He scoffed at the fact; he would think not.

America peered outside the irregular shapes that he had carved out from the chilled window with his warm fingers, frosted blue eyes squinting at the barely visible view from his gloomily silent mansion. Observing the outside with minute callousness, the man stared out from a nearby alley, whereupon a female with a desecrated-looking hat of sorts hung barely on the top of her head, as birds of varying sizes settled upon it temporarily, to peck and chew at whatever scraps of food they could obtain, before darting off some distance, praying for better luck. This sort of scene had been much too commonplace around his house for much too long now; it had been summed up through various mouths as "The Great Depression". Although it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been a few years back, there was no doubt that the economic slump had left the nation all the worse for wear. No longer did they hand out loans like some happy-go-lucky pauper. Instead, they had started up saving for their own rainy days.

He snorted. It was about damn time.

Of course, there were protests every now and again held outside his own building, or other various high-powered buildings, to which America would glare with intense hatred at those who were participating. What, in their largely limited little minds, did they hope to achieve through these public demonstrations of embarrassment? Would they demand for money that he could not spare? Would they demand for jobs that were already far too outstretched as they were? They were not helping themselves. They were wasting both his precious time, and dirtying up the streets with their uncouth behaviour. The best they could do, in his oh-so-humble opinion, was sit at home and pray to whomever they believed in, that powerful deity that could perhaps spare them a loving glance or two and shower them with riches. Perhaps then, they would at least be of some use of to him… or to the nation, at that.

Clearly, staring at his own flesh and blood faltering and halting with such pathetic yet valiant attempts at survival did not help to appease the boiling gut feeling that he'd experienced for some time now, an angry feeling that he couldn't quite place his finger on in terms of origin. Shaking his head resignedly, he smudged the window with a violent swipe of his long-sleeved, sky blue shirt, creating an ugly mural of a deep hole on his only sight out to the world, a world he no longer wished to associate himself with.

Even heroes had to take a break, every now and again.

Deciding that it was about high time to stop moping around and scoffing at the revolting displays outside, America finally pushed himself from the window of his spacious room, and out towards his bathroom down the hall. Although there were those stereotypical sayings of Americans being far too extravagant for their own good, the nation did nothing to demote such a message. The word "spacious" was much too humble to describe his bedroom, let alone his entire mansion. From the outside, the architecture had a twist of what seemed to be French architectures' aesthetics mingling with Britain's simplicity, and finally, America's own style that was far from subtle. It spanned a large five floors – notwithstanding that basement, which would have made it six floors, technically – and all of which was surrounded by a wall the colour of pristine porcelain, white regardless of the amount of light that was shed on them. His room was conveniently located on the third floor, somewhere that was not too high up nor too low for his liking, with a rather scenic (but scenic would not be a word that could describes the ragged beings that now plagued his home) view of the outside world. Inside the room itself, there was a large canopy bed, both of the bottom rungs of the bed highlighting large American flags that always seemed to wave despite the absence of air. Everywhere as far as the eye could see was a myriad of blurs of mainly the colours blue, red and white, all of which, of course, were his favourite colours… had he such time for frivolities like preferences. The war-torn era had hardened him, and so much more so with the tragedies that had befallen before his very eyes.

Crossing the room to the bathroom door, America peeked inside somewhat shyly so as to ensure the absence of the maid; despite his rather obnoxious ramblings, he was quite a private person in his own right. His nude bodice was definitely something he would not so heartily show off to someone who was not even close to worthy.

He shed his clothes rapidly, preventing the cold chill of the morning from seeping into his lukewarm skin, but to no avail. The slight fog that had settled within the closed bathroom doors, devoid of any windows, was not so forgiving, permeating far too easily into his fair complexion. He shuddered; the heater had stopped working again, he thought to himself with a frown. It would be far too tiring to install a new one, so he made a mental note to himself to hire a plumber, or someone who had some least bit of knowledge about pipes. Lord only knew that he did not, his knowledge mostly attributing to that of fast food and largely successful corporations that propped themselves up overnight. Grumbling to himself with sheer dissatisfaction at the uselessness of his mind's inner working, he stepped into the unblemished tub, crossing his arms and rubbing them up and down his arms in a vain attempt at preventing the chill from soliciting his body temperature. It would seem that nature itself was against him as well; what other explanation would there be for the deteriorating state of his country, as well as the ludicrous temperature within the confined walls?

The sound of water slamming against porcelain was audible a few seconds later, as the male turned on the divine source of what seemed to be infinite heat. Breathing a sigh of relief, it felt as though the muscles that had clenched themselves in agonizing fits within his body loosened. He noted with grim satisfaction how his body's complexion and sturdiness seemed not to age over the years, a cruel reminder of perhaps a premonition that he would again be needed in the not-so-far future.

This state of euphoria only lasted a few seconds, before wide eyes, glasses set outside the shower curtain, fixed themselves upon a stain of crimson on the palm of his hand. It looked to be no larger than a dollop of… _something_ – paint would have been the first logical conclusion that an outsider would have landed on, but to him, it was something much more than that. Something much more horrifying.

It was blood.

His heart beat raced considerably, panicked blue orbs stuck in a stupor of pure fear. With the hand that had not been stained with any of the liquid, he scrubbed at it with ferocious intensity. Despite there been having no wound, and despite his soap being one of those so heavily advertised as being able to clean anything, the stain remained, stubbornly staring at him straight in the face. Fear turned to absolute horror, as pale, shaking hands repeatedly scratched at the blood that refused to move or even. It was no good.

The free hand reached on out to the knobs of the shower, blasting on the heated water that at first, seemed to have no effect on the ice-cold haunted feeling that flooded the male from within. Somewhere in the back of sense and logic came the conclusion that perhaps the lava-like temperatures would melt the damned stain off, and that was what he had proceeded to do. Over and over, frantically so, his free hand scrubbed the soap on the circular crimson field that rested in the middle of his hand.

It dared not budge, nor demonstrate any sort of fading.

A raw feeling now emanated from his stained hand, his skin now suffering the effects of the dizzying heat, coupled with the mental stress that the male no doubt felt within himself. Escalating to new heights of pure dread and trepidation, America noted with raging irritation how his free hand was now scrubbing much slower, his mind interpreting a gray fog that misted over his bright blue eyes. Eyelids blinked, drooping dangerously low, and his body teetered forward, destabilized. He shook his head irritably; what was this? It unnerved him, the slow state of his thought processing, his lack of full manoeuvrability of his own posture. But that only ceased him for but a second, his attention once again turned on the spot that refused to relinquish his hold on the male's raw, burned skin. The last he could recall was scrubbing it – vainly, should it be added – an additional five strokes, before his vision completely blacked out, a skull-shattering impact on the back of his skull.

'_Damned spot.'_

* * *

><p>It was the humming… the incessant humming of… <em>something <em>that triggered the spark of consciousness within his body. It started out as that, nothing more than a humming, but it had gradually increased to a much louder decibel, so much so that it felt as though a drill was boring through his skull. The serene calm that had been integrated into his mind from the humming was instantly shattered as it was replaced by the more obnoxious sound, and blue eyes shot open as though to ward off the trifling sound. All he was met with was a blur of shapes and colors, vague outlines of things that were much too familiar to him for him not to have instantly recognized it. Instinctively, an arm shot out towards the nearby dresser, patting its flat surface rhythmically in a rough symphony of noise. It was not long before they settled on the thin wires that held his glasses, which he then donned with shaky spasms. Once he had confirmed his whereabouts, he shot straight up, sitting up.

It was not the wisest choice he made.

The throbbing sound now made itself more clear to him as a pounding stroke to the back of his skull, and immediately, he hissed in pain, his hand shooting out to cradle the pain in question. Disoriented as he was, he couldn't help but notice his clothed state; had he not decided on taking a shower a few minutes ago?

A… shower?

Memories flooded through his cerebrum, of his barely remembered attempt at a shower, of how he had relaxed… and of how he had met his demise at the hands of certain spot. Seized with sudden terror and delirium, he looked at his right palm, holding his breath, unwilling to let his eyes see. Such breath was loudly dispelled upon the disappearance of the villainous crimson, and he sighed with relief. He settled himself back into a laying position, his questions as to his whereabouts all but answered, save for the question of how he had ended up once more in his beloved bedroom, his skull threatening to crack itself from the obnoxious thrashing sounds that wailed on rhythmically in his head. However, as he did so, an unfamiliar sound surprised him. Deftly reaching over to his left side, his eyes narrowed at the almost illegible writing on a piece of paper.

It read: '_America sir, I sincerely hope you wake up soon. I was coming to bring in some fresh towels for you to use, but when I knocked on the door, there was no answer. I knew you were in there from the sounds of water running, but after about ten minutes of knocking, I began to panic. When I found you, you were sprawled on the tub floor. Your head was bleeding quite a bit, so I took you out of there and bandaged you up and clothed you, and carried you to your bed. There doesn't seem to be too much damage, and I won't inquire as to what happened, but I do advise you to be more careful in the future. Had I been any later, you might have never woken up again. I have left for now to fetch a doctor, so please take it easy for now.'_

Oh, so that was what happened. Right. It all made sense.

America groaned in irritation, feeling said bandages with expert fingers around his head. How the hell he could possibly make such a lousy move such as that was beyond him. It was just another thing he had messed up on, really. But, what else was new?

Learning from his mistake, the male propped himself up at a slower pace, using his elbows as leverage. Feeling rather sick with displeasure at his own uselessness, he rolled over to the side of the bed, the springs creaking in protest at his weight. Before he had the chance to do so successfully, however, more words scribbled at the back of the page. Curiosity tugging at him, he had to squint to read the even more illegible writing, which was shorter than the previous paragraph. It merely read: '_P.S. Please don't forget your meeting today._'

Meeting? What meeting…?

Oh, _that _meeting.

Scrambling out of bed and throwing the quilted covers aside (earning him another breath-stopping gasp of pain), America raced towards his magnificent closet that someone had gifted him with some time ago. Pulling the doors open with loud bangs, his eyes quickly skimmed over the selection, something that could give even the most well-renowned fashionistas and shopaholics a run for their money. He finally settled on a simple blue, white and red striped shirt with faded jeans; his company was not someone he would dress up for too formally, despite said visitor's affinity for more sophisticated and high-end clothing. After all, a visit from him nowadays never boded too well, and there was no doubt that this was not going to be any different. Tugging on a stray piece of thread that hung from his shirt, the man stole a quick glance at the time; quarter to twelve. Might as well get the tea ready.

The familiar sound of the doorbell, amplified about fifty times more or so in his pounding skull, alerted him to the arrival of his guest. His head was still wrapped in the white bandage that his housekeeper had so nicely enough done for him, something that would not be given a word of gratitude as of course, he was the housekeeper, and thus, that sort of thing was expected of him to do. Now, he hadn't had the guts (funnily enough) to unwrap it, lest it start bleeding on him. He would have much preferred not to have blood all over his bed and floor, _thank you very much_. Still, the thought of his little incident annoyed him to no end, that show of weakness that most could not, or never could, see. It was all thanks to his superb acting skills, much to his pleasure, but a physical wound such as this could not be as easily covered, and no doubt his previous caretaker would be probing him with a question or two.

But, that was what a lying façade was for, was it not?

Smoothing out his shirt, running slender fingers through moist, platinum blonde hair, the male tapped his cheek lightly twice on each side, forcing the frown of disapproval on his face into that of a heart-warming smile, a smile that he had been so easily able to show off before to most anyone. Even the formation of his muscles to facilitate the fake thing felt much too foreign to him, as if it was something he was now out of practice of. But, wasn't that just the case, if he had to look at it honestly? A genuine smile had not graced his features since the end of that ultimate war of which he sought reprieve from, of which he desired had never happened, of which he wished had never caused the loss of so many lives. However, such wishful thinking was much too silly, much too childish to come to terms with, and so instead of adapting a completely new personality that everyone would perhaps question, it was much better – in his opinion – to stick to that happy-go-lucky bastard that fulfilled everyone's wishes of safety and security, without knowing that it was compromising his own. After all, that was the "hero" that everyone saw him as, and so why not live to those splendidly gigantic expectations as h always had?

This sort of thinking, however, would be greatly tested by his visitor, someone of whom he had both a bitter and sweet relationship with. He could only hope that it would turn to the former; the latter was not something he was adequately sure he could deal with at that moment, given the prior events and his physical state of mind. He would be damned if the blood spot made itself known once more; his visitor would most definitely not let such a breakdown escape with overly-large bushy eyebrows, much to his chagrin. It was in these times when he wished that the other wasn't so perceptive of him… but then again, how could he not? He had _lived _with him, for Pete's sake. It was already a miracle that the other hadn't confronted him about the fragility of his smile just yet. Knowing his luck, today would be the day that the walls would come down, although to that, he sincerely hoped it would not happen quite yet.

Stealing a glance at the mirror to ensure the stability of the fake grin, America adjusted his glasses before dusting off his shirt, dashing down the stairs and screaming a high-pitched, "**Coooomiiinnnggg!~**" Footsteps echoed as he made a mad dash towards the door, and by the team he flung it open, the beam on his face was starting to become absolutely _painful_. Still, pain was no stranger to him, and with no less effort, he waved a palm out to his former caretaker. "**Yo, Britain, what's up? Took you long enough, dude, the tea was starting to get cold!**"

The blonde, just a few centimetres short of himself, crossed his arms and huffed, rolling his eyes at the pure ecstasy that America was showing. "I see _your _energy hasn't dwindled a tad. Right, let's… get this started, shall we?" America nodded, thoughts spinning around the lines of "_sucker!_", before skipping – yes, skipping (one might say he was overdoing it, but the repeated rolling of eyes of the blonde behind him told him otherwise) – away towards the kitchen, setting before both himself and the man fresh cups of tea. "**So, Britain, what've **_**you **_**been up to? Need any help recovering your finances?**" America asked, winking at him knowingly. Internally, he blanched at the thought that seemed to be exact déjà vu of what he had just been mulling over that morning. There was no way he could afford to offer any assistance, not now, and knowing the man anyways, he would have probably been much too proud to accept anything from him… a guess that was accurate. "I don't need your help, you bloody wanker. We're doing _perfectly _fine on our own, and that's no thanks to you!" He laughed heartily, to which America later joined in. "**Right, right, but it's thanks to me that we won!**" That seemed to do the job of cutting off the blonde's incessantly annoying laughter. The look on his face was now replaced with anger. "Wh-wh-what did you just say, you bloody git? We were perfectly fine with _your _stepping in! It was all that bloody France's fault that we- Ow, ow!" America peered over to the other's suddenly flushed appearance, and he couldn't help the laugh that came bursting out when he solved the mystery.

In all his passionate rage about his country, the shorter blonde had continually hit the table so hard that the tea, with its boiling hot water, had spilled all over his leg, which was clothed in a black trench coat that stretched languidly all the way down to his ankles. "**Haha! You know if you wanted a shower, you should've just said so, dude**", America said, sniggering, the enjoyment at his pain not something he was faking. The blonde stood up rapidly, banging his fist on the table before huffing and turning on his heel, heading straight upstairs for his former charge's bathroom. "Oh, hush up, you bloody git."

America watched with highly amused eyes, a smirk of sadistic pleasure tugging on his face. Well, that was more of the fun he had been looking forward to, although he was a tad disappointed that it wasn't any more entertaining… or more painful. With a casual shrug, he followed the other up the stairs in case the other somehow drowned in his bathtub (oh, the complete irony), sneaking carefully in contrast to his youthful zest. He noted with an eyebrow rise that the door was a fourth open, and one could hear the gushing of the water, along with the blonde's incessant muttering. He could only hear the words "pay" and "tea" and "wanker", but that was enough to cause him to chuckle in delight… until he saw _it_.

There, laced in the black coat that Britain was wearing, was an equally velvet-looking dim box, about three by three, clamped shut by a red tie that ended gracefully atop it with a crimson knot.

It seized him. Could he have stopped it? No, of course not.

It lashed out at him like a rabid monster caged, and caged it had been upon the other's arrival, his well-intentioned attempts at looking light-hearted nothing more than a series of ill-done acting skills. It filled him with pure, unadulterated… _rage_. He couldn't – _wouldn't _– control it. It felt as though something had possessed him, travelling down through his veins, from his fingertips to his toes, burning lava clamping and clawing at him as it roared internally. America sucked in a deep breath at an attempt to cool his monumentally painful internal temperature, but to no avail. Too much. Too much. _It was too damn much._

Punching the bathroom door open – and earning a yelp from the person inside – the platinum blonde had somehow managed to slap some sense into his face, coating it with that smile that was far too brittle to be ever considered anything close to authentic. Before the blonde could cease his senseless sputtering, recovering from his surprise, America beat him to the punch by attempting a light-hearted tone, laced with pure malice. Snakes danced on his tongue as he spoke. "**Hey, Britain!~ Where'd you get that box?**" This seemed to be the trigger to stop the other's babbling; instead, the other froze in his spot, eyes widened. "W-well, I had thought on my way here to visit your garden, and I tripped on a half-buried mound of dirt, and upon uncovering it, I found this. It was such a pretty little thing, that I couldn't help but wonder if you'd lost it in some childish game of hide-and-seek." He chuckled weakly, still surprised by the other's outburst. "**Ohhh! But, dude, I know privacy isn't your thing and all, but don't you think you should have asked before taking it?**" America smiled, something eerily similar to that of a certain purple-eyed Russian. "Right, I was going to return it to you." America inched closer. "**But I never asked you to do that, did I?**" "I-I beg your pardon?"

An explosion ensued, followed quickly by the yelp of a certain Englishman as the taller male effortlessly dashed into the closed space, lifting up the other easily with one hand, which curled around the front of the other's shirt. "A-America? Wh-what's wrong with you?" the other asked, gasping for the vital oxygen, before his eyes widened in pure shock at the scene before him. No longer was there the happy, smiling American. Instead, it had been replaced by someone with a bloodthirsty look in his eyes, radiating an aura of horrid sadism. "Wh-what…?" "**Kindly **_**shut up.**_" "N-no, I will n-not!" the Briton wheezed. "Y-you must t-tell me wh-what's wr-wrong!"

A slam followed forth, as the male was smacked head and back first against the concrete wall, America eyeing him with a look of pure disdain. "**You're not allowed to **_**touch **_**that box. Ever. No, **_**especially **_**not you.**" "Wh-why ever n-not? I-I can d-do anything I d-damn well pl-please!" The defiant note in his voice was diminished greatly by his wheezed stuttering, and America could only laugh in pleasure. "**Look at you, mighty Britain. How far you have fallen. Ever the defiant one, are you? Too bad that mouth of yours can be easily… **_**fixed.**_" A menacing smile on his features, the male lurched forward, his free hand wheeled backwards to the maximum possible angle, in preparation to break the man's jaw clean square in one hit. The Briton paled visibly, eyes widening in terror. America growled, the rage within him barely suppressed now, free reign given to it after the phony smile had been shed. The air whistled as he released his fist, and Britain could only close his eyes from the sudden retaliation. America's anger overwhelmed him, blind rage took control of him, and his only focus was to _break this damned Brit's jaw and mess him up for taking the box._

"America, stop it!"

A fist froze half an inch away from the clammy skin of the blonde, his hairs standing on end at their proximity. Blue orbs swivelled erratically, searching for the voice, before they landed on the reflection of the figure in the mirror. At once, it was as though a vacuum had been released, deflating him. The rage that had so easily possessed him now flowed out freely, and his arm holding up the Brit released, followed by a loud thumping sound as the man landed square on his behind, eyes still wide in terror, frozen. America sighed, suddenly slapping himself on the cheek, before feeling a bubble of laughter from his throat. Sparing the other a quick glance, he chuckled. "**Canada! I thought you were visiting France?**" "… I-I just got back. What're you doing to Britain?" "**Oh, that? We were just having some fun, ya' know? Right, Britain?**" He grinned playfully at the other, who was now basically glued to the wall, and if it was possible, with eyes even wider, his head shaking profusely, back and forth. "**Pffftt, Britain's such a spoiled sport. Anyways, I'll let you finish up here, buddy! Just come downstairs when you're done, and **_**you **_**set up the tea. Okay? Okay!" **"W-wait for me, America…" "**Hurry up, Canada, you slowpoke!" **"I… I am _not _slow!" "_**Sure**_**, you're not.**"

Laughing heartily, all traces of malice gone from his gut and actions, he grinned at the blonde, who had yet to move from his spot, his mouth hanging open. "**Britain, dude, if you're not gonna move, at least freeze into a more likeable position. What's wrong with you?**" he asked, peering curiously at the other. "B-but America, Canada…" "**Yeah, I know, big surprise, huh? Hurry up, okay? I'll be waiting downstairs.**" "R-right…"

* * *

><p>Once his two companions had left, America breathed a sigh of relief, before frowning. He replayed the events in his head. He… wasn't quite sure what had happened, why he had so suddenly lashed out like that, but he was still undeniably… angry. He shook his head; as he had predicted, nothing would come out of Britain's visit. Biting his lip, he clenched and unclenched his fist, attempting to find a way to channel his irritation. The sudden sound of mail being pushed through his door's slot assisted matters none; it only served to further his irascibility. Clicking his tongue, he roughly ripped open the envelope, blue eyes quickly scanning the contents.<p>

It read: '_Pearl Harbour has been attacked._' Brief. Concise.

And just what he needed.

Resuming his grin of malice, he set down by a nearby desk, ready to scribble his approval of entering the predicted war. He couldn't say he was helping anyone else, right? He could say – _excuse _– that this was now personal. '_Right_', he thought to himself, already feeling the irritability drain away, as he wrote his approval of a counterattack.

* * *

><p><strong>I swear I'm insane, but whatever! As promised, this is America's PoV, but I decided to change it so it would be the beginning of WWII. Remember how I said that this is supposedly a "canon" fic? Yes, it still is, so you're looking at me, thinking, "WHAT THE HELL, AMERICA WOULD NEVER ACT LIKE THAT!" Well, my answer? This is part of my plot, yo. 8) And so, the mystery begins, dun-dun-dun. WHAT IS THE BOX? AND WHAT POSSESSED AMERICA TO BE A NEW LEVEL OF ASS? Hahaha! Anyways, although this was again some fluff, there was some <strong>_**really essential **_**plot stuff here, so read carefully. Also, I made a MacBeth reference, if anyone got that. 8)**

**Reviews are always welcome; this fic really is my baby, and comments would be appreciated. c:**


	3. Inside

It was raining now, the pinpricks of water crashing and slamming their motile bodies against the windows with such force that they seemed on the verge of cracking and collapsing. There were no tell-tale signs of a coming storm; the clouds were just drastically depressing in all their grey glory as they wept over the sad excuse for humanity that lived on the brown and green earth.

What a fun start to his supposed birthday.

Canada lay curled in the foetal position on the large, cushioned sofa, his petite body barely any larger than one of the square pillows that lay by the upper half of his body. Kumajirou was pressed against his torso, looking as though it was being strangled to death there in the arms of the child. However, there was no such murderous intent in the child's mind; rather, it was nothing more than pure sorrow that now resided in his emotions, filling up every single pore in his body to a point of paralysis. He did not know how long he had lay there, listening to the sounds of the rain ramming against the window. Every now and again, he would jolt whenever a larger raindrop committed suicide against the crystal glass; this was the only indication that yes, indeed, the male was still alive. Even his breathing was short and shallow, erratic at times. The way his eyes were squinted, slammed so tightly against themselves betrayed great suffering within the tiny body. One could positively feel the aura of negativity around him and, if anything, he looked to be on his death bed, in the way his almost translucent skin barely absorbed the dim light that hung in the spacious living quarters. Perhaps it was a fever – or at least one would think – until feeling his forehead, which was surprisingly at the norm of thirty-seven degrees. Externally, there was nothing wrong with him save for the feverish symptoms, but internally, _everything _was wrong with him.

What had started as a bad day gone worse went downhill relatively faster ever since he had been presented with the birthday cake, which his brother had then proceeded to instantly demolish in front of his very eyes. No words could have possibly described what he felt at that moment, especially when his brother was brought out of the room to be washed up by a very harassed-looking England. The sibling had exited with words of laughter and a smile on his face, but to the purple-eyed beauty, it was something harbouring on hatred and anger. However, as minutes passed the sound of the shower became audible from where he stood, such emotions spiralled into a deep depression. He couldn't fathom why, _what _he had done to deserve such a thing. He must have been a bad boy sometime or another, for no other words could possibly describe why his once-in-a-lifetime cake was shattered in front of his very eyes. But then, he paused. Thinking about cakes reminded him instantly of his previous caretaker, France. There was often no special celebration when the man would bake him pastries of enormous proportions, and he never questioned those moments. He saw them as love and care, words and coos that he thought were often not befitting of someone like him. However, he had accepted them all wholeheartedly, and no moment was ever spoiled. But in this house, there always seemed to be a factor that stole him away from his perfect bliss.

He knew exactly who to blame.

Tears dribbled down his eyelids, trickling onto the unanimated polar bear that hung limply from his tight arms. Would he ever be someone that could shine in England's eyes? He knew as well as America – _more _so, than America even – that such a thing would never happen. The blonde always had eyes for his sibling more than he had for himself; after all, he was just an acquisition on the sidelines, not exactly something that was wanted. He was… something more of a consolation prize really, a secondary thing that the older gentleman would have been fine with or without. America, on the other hand, was one he would have gotten "fair and square", to say it loosely, and of course more of his affection would cater towards his twin. Even despite the fact that he was the quieter of two, the one who actually _attempted_ not to vandalize the walls with caricatures and drawings of space and some odd machinery (that would later turn out to be a space rocket), the one who actually _attempted_ not to break the rules, there was no doubt in his mind that their caretaker, although unsurprisingly annoyed by his main son's rebellious streak, found all his acts endearing. On the other hand, he knew that if he should attempt any of those sort of uncivilized acts, he would be kicked out of the house in a second flat. After all, he was just a prize of sorts to be hung on the wall, another symbol of the British victory against France. He could be cast away as easily as he had been taken in, given the fact that he did not have as many contributions to England's house as America did. That and, the other was completely likeable and loveable by many others, while he blended much too perfectly in the background. If he had to be honest with himself, no one would miss him.

What was he still doing in the house, then?

A few hours had passed since the older man had taken away his obnoxious sibling to clean up. The ticking of clock was much too discernible now, and Canada could hear it even over his loud, erratic breaths. Shakily, he propped himself up, indigo eyes blinking uncertainly. Where had they gone? But then he shrugged; it didn't matter. England was most likely doing something fun with America, probably off recounting tales of pirates and the seas to which the other would listen to avidly. He wouldn't even bother calling for him; all he did was sit and listen quietly, and after all, everyone knew that _that _sort of thing was a crime. He wished that he could interject as much as America did, but at the same time, he was glad he did not. He did not wish to be someone he was starting to absolutely loathe with all his gut.

He landed on the floor with a soft thud, Kumajirou swinging limply in his left hand while said hand grasped firmly the bear's wrist. The child frowned, biting his lip and contemplating on his next course of action. It would be fine, wouldn't it? It would be fine if he ran away and never returned. Maybe England would mourn his loss – for a top of two days, he would venture to guess – and then return back to his happy, callous (and still chaotic) life with America, none the worse for the wear. After all, what was he but an intrusion to the house, someone to spend a few extra pounds on? He was someone who took that third seat around the table, someone who took the third shower that day, and someone who was the third inhabitant in that house. A third wheel, if anything. No, he shook his head. At least a wheel, if on a car, would be useful to the contraption in general. He… he was just the dirt on the road that no one spared a passing glance for. He was resolved now. He would go away. He would go away and never come back.

But what about France?

If he had to admit to himself, France was the only family he had that felt as though it were such a thing. Of course now, in comparison to England, it didn't seem to be any different, and if it was, it was only by a tiny proportion. But he vaguely remembered a promise to his previous caretaker, that he would survive for him and take care of himself. He knew he was not the type to break a promise, not especially to someone he loved, someone he bore a close resemblance to. This alone was able to stop him in his tracks; '_Papa will be so sad_', he thought to himself. Or at least, he would mourn for an extra four days as opposed to England, that much he was certain of. And despite all the things that had happened to him – mainly changing hands from said man to England – he found that he could not break the Frenchman's heart like that. Disappearing into nothingness, although almost impossible for a nation, was doable. A pang of guilt resounded in his heart for his father figure, and so he became strongly opposed to such an idea.

He would take a walk instead.

Because England had not yet returned, no doubt from his father-son moment with America, Canada took it upon himself to fasten a pair of red and white striped boots onto his petite feet, strapping on a yellow bucket hat onto his blonde hair. By the door lay a few umbrellas, two of which were rather miniscule, as they were meant for himself and America to carry around. He reached out for one and without so much as a second glance at the home that had given him comfort up until that moment, he reached up towards the door. It creaked open, and almost at once, he was assaulted with a fiery breeze that threatened to pull the hat off his head. He groaned, shielding his eyes with his arm, his body barely clothed in nothing more than the one-piece baptismal robe of sorts. The forceful nature had him staggering backwards, and his eyes widened in fear.

He was scared. He was very scared.

… But he had to do this. Another moment in that house risked the danger of running into England and his brother laughing jovially at some internal joke that he would never be graced with. One such instance of his birthday cake disintegrating before his eyes was more than enough for him.

Shaking his head, he took in a deep breath, frowning at the air and rain in general. With sheer effort, he forced the umbrella open, the winds howling around it in their fury, cold water splattering on his face rhythmically until he was able to prop the umbrella to its upright position. Two hands were required to keep it as such. Because the other was grasping his polar bear rather fiercely on his arm, it took some slight reaching and stretching to get himself prepared, but within a few seconds, he was relatively equipped for the onslaught. Sighing, he took a deep breath, puffing his cheeks in defiance. He would only take a quick walk, and he would be back.

Or not. '_Non, Papa will be worried_', he reminded himself haughtily. It would be fine with a walk to clear his mind; the stuffiness and overly-familiar surroundings that threatened to close in on him would not have helped matters. Sudden interruption by his caretaker and America would not have assisted his plight in any way, either, and so leaving the mansion was the only suitable choice at that moment, although he wished it had not been in such a heavy downpour.

Boots trampled dirtily and noisily on the mud that had been softened up by the heaven's tears, and Canada stared blankly at his footprints that were embedded within them. There was a melancholic look on his face; oh how much he would have rather been part of the earth. Despite being trampled upon daily – a sick realization dawned upon him, would that have been any different from now? – he would at least be of some use to others. In that house, he was nothing more than a nuisance in the family, nothing more and nothing less. He amounted to nothing more than a speck of dust really, and he wondered why he had not been taken away yet. Such uselessness had to have some sort of limit, didn't it?

He continued on forward, venturing through the forest that was the backyard. These woods were familiar to him, very much so, due to his tendency to play hide-and-seek with his brother here. More often than not, he had been forced to learn the ins and outs of the branches and vines, in order to be able to extricate both himself and his troublesome brother from their clutches. He basically remembered what it was like for a good few miles around here, while America continued to stubbornly keep himself naïve of his surroundings, often causing trouble for both him and England. Luckily enough, today's venture into the waiting clutches of the trees would not be a chore; it would simply be an outlet for his thoughts to escape. It would be relaxing to fall asleep under a tree, the umbrella erected over his head as he listened to the raindrops fall rhythmically over him. He would be lulled into an easy sleep, he would hope, and he would never wake up again, free from his world's harsh realities and constant reminders that he was, in fact, an unwanted child, an unneeded nation in the world…

The child jumped up a few feet in the air when he heard the sound of something… most definitely _alien _to the forest. It sounded like gasping, it sounded like someone in pain – it sounded _human_. Canada froze in his spot, glasses fogging up slightly from the chilled temperatures as he gazed at everything and nothing at once. It was far too eerie, far too creepy, but yet his natural curious urges egged him to look for the source of the noise. He bit his lips in indecision; what if it was someone out there who was waiting to kill him, or abduct him? Would they grant him a swift death, or would they torture him before finally granting him mercy? If there was anything the child was abruptly fearful of, it was physical pain. From the stories of pirates that England would tell the twins every now and again, it was no laughable matter when one's arms were being scraped with a knife (one had to question the male's sense of appropriateness). He would have much rather been killed at gun point than have his agony prolonged. Ironically enough, although not physically, that was his life in a nutshell.

He sucked in a deep breath. Well, he had ventured all the way out here to break past the normalcy of America and England, had he not? He really might as well continue on, and if for some reason he was killed, that wouldn't matter. They probably wouldn't find his body for months, and by then, he might have already deteriorated to something just a little more than a shrivel of mud and clay. He might as well add in a sense of adventure in his depressingly unwanted life. He might as well _do _something.

Despite renewing his resolve, Canada couldn't help but gulp in nervousness. Nevertheless, he ventured forward, eyes skimming the familiar trees with practiced sight, memorizing every odd twig that stuck out in the rain, every shrub that had a sliver of uniqueness from any other. Yes, he was well-acquainted in his path, and he was both thankful and afraid that the raucous noises were growing louder this way; at least, should he need to run, he would have easily found his way home… although that would not have been too different from being taken away in the first place.

They groaned louder and louder, the foreign sounds, and the child gripped Kumajirou to his chest despite the difficulty of keeping his umbrella erected upright. Certainty flooded him; he was sure that in front of the bush that looked like a shiny hedgehog in front of him, would be the culprit. With a deep breath, he pushed the green grass aside, eyes clenching as they awaited an onslaught of weapons being flung his way – but instead, felt none. After a few passing seconds, the recurring noises continued, and slowly, he popped one eyelid open. The other followed suit almost instantly, as they laid their sights on just what was now sprawled in a flash of white and red in front of him.

It was no wonder now, why those sounds were too familiar. When he had heard them, it had sent both a feeling of fear and irritation within him, but he had dismissed the irritation as something that lingered from the previous episode with the cake. However now, the whole thing had been explained. After all, why wouldn't it be? He'd heard that obnoxious sound all over the house almost every day, which was almost always instantly followed by a cooing England: America crying.

His twin lay half-propped up against the wooden trunk, his own baptismal white outfit splayed violently over his body. It was ripped slightly on his right arm, and even from this distance, Canada could spot the line of crimson that coloured it. The initial reaction within him was, predictably enough, panic. Was the criminal, the perpetrator still around here? He hugged the bear closer to him, his own personal shield should it ever come down to a struggle. France had always said to just scream and run whenever there was a possibility of danger, while England had always said to formulate a plan and stand one's ground. Of course, having been younger and more gullible in France's home, he had adopted that way of thinking, and he now stood poised, ready to run should there be any more foreign noises.

He didn't know how long he stood there, rain pouring down on his umbrella, staring at his brother and around his brother, alternating viewpoints. It ceased from taking further action, but when it was evident that no one was coming, he took a deep breath and stepped over the stray twigs and branches. Timidly, he stepped over to his brother, eyes open in both curiosity and fear.

From this close, America's breathing was clearly audible; it was hitched and unpredictably erratic. But Canada's own feelings had stabilized now at this point. He stared unblinkingly at his brother's limp body, one arm clutching the seemingly broken left arm. His face was devoid of emotion, his eyes zeroing in on the various points of his brother's body. He seemed fine, overall, he assessed calmly enough, save for the obvious injury on his left. He felt no more of the panic before; this was America, after all, the only person he could trust to get injured on a daily basis. Sighing, the young child crept closer, kneeling on his brother's left side, one hand pressing against the other's pale white face.

He had a fever.

Shaking his head in resignation, Canada retracted his hand… before spotting _it_. To an outsider, it was such a minute detail that it was not even worth a second glance, but to the child, it was one that he could easily find – it was a needle he could have easily come across in a haystack. There, painted in all its glorious white and red, were the remnants of the icing of his cake. All at once, a bubbling feeling exploded within his gut, and he hissed, despite knowing that the other was probably far too unconscious to even hear him. Yes, _yes,_ YES. It was all _America's_ fault that his birthday had been ruined, it was all _his _fault he had to even walk _sous la pluie__stupide_! Purple eyes narrowed into slits as he positively glared at the limp body; he _deserved_ this. He absolutely _deserved_ this. He deserved to rot here and die, for all he cared! A hissing sound lashed out once more from within his mind, as the bitter, hating insults and situations came to mind. No, of course he wouldn't die here. England was probably already out in the rain looking for him; it would have explained why the house was so eerily quiet. Canada hissed again, one tiny boot kicking up some mud that splashed onto the other's hem. He could _leave _his twin here now, since he'd live anyways. Honestly, for all he cared, he could turn around and head home now, leaving his sibling to the comeuppance he oh-so-_justly_ deserved. This was his punishment, yes, Canada mused, for having stolen his cake and England's rare attention to him! Tiny fists squeezed harshly, going pale instantly as the blood flow to them abruptly ceased. He resisted the urge to spit on the body; why, why would he even help? If he did, then everything would just return to the exact same thing; he would be forever overshadowed by the louder child. He knew that it was his fault for being so quiet, but at the same time, if America wasn't around, then being quiet would have been no problem! Eyes narrowed, still staring at the unconscious body, unblinking, unmoving.

The tree was not spared from the sudden movement, from the sudden force of the punch.

Canada turned wordlessly, planning on going back to the house and sleeping, pretending like all this had never happened.

"C-Canada?"

He froze, the top half of his body twisting robotically towards the source of the weak cry. Eyes widened in surprise, he watched as his brother weakly – and in vain – stood up, only to fall back on the tree, once more unconscious. Stopping in his tracks, the sense of curiosity overwhelming, Canada stepped backwards and towards the male, the look on his face now calmer and less pained. He blinked uncomprehendingly for a few times, wondering why it was _his_ name that had been uttered, and not England's. Well, why would it not be? The two obviously shared a bond that he would never be able to understand. The fact that it was him that had been called out for had him backtracking, searching America's face for hints of mischief – and found none. He stared and stared at the serene body, not moving an inch save for his breathing and Kumajirou absolutely choking from the iron grip that the child had on it.

He let out a loud sigh.

He didn't know why he was doing it, or what had even _possessed _him to take the slightest bit of pity for his usually domineering sibling. Kneeling back on his sibling's left side, Canada set down the umbrella towards the side, the rain taking no mercy and immediately attacking his unshielded body. The hat on his head was able to at least keep that part of his body relatively dry, but nonetheless, he was soaked. He worked quickly, efficiently, gingerly lifting up the injured arm with practiced carefulness. There was no external injury, as far as he could see, except for a tiny wound that looked like it was scraped with a rock. The arm's skin, however, was purplish, and he'd paid enough attention to books that England would have laying around the house to know that it was a sprain. He had remembered that it was important to keep it in one position and avoid jostling it around. The child looked around for something that he could use to perhaps keep it stationary, eyes landing only on a nearby branch, the size just barely matching his brother's. He walked on over to it, setting it aside. Now all he needed was something to prop it up, and scanning the vicinity, he found that there was no such luck.

Canada groaned in slight irritation; here he was, finally – mysteriously – assisting his hurt brother, and he couldn't even follow through! Just how _useless _could someone get? It was no wonder England would have nothing to do with him, and _Papa_ would barely come to visit. What was the point in even taking care of such a useless child such as himself? He groaned once more, before plopping down on the ground, dirtying his white dress. Folding his knees, he pulled them close to himself, chin resting atop them as he gazed at his brother's face, angelic. Did he look like that when he slept? He sighed; did that matter?

There was a sudden gust of wind that caught him off-guard, and a loose section of his clothing smacked him in the face, causing him to sputter incoherently, fighting it off with his bare hands. Clenching a large section of the cloth, he straightened up, an idea hitting him just as the cloth ironically had.

He took off his dress, standing there only in his diapers. He blushed at this realization, but immediately pulled himself together; no one was around, and no one ever noticed him, so why would such a thing happen? Resolutely, he pulled apart the cloth along the hem, resulting in a long, thin piece of fabric. Thankfully enough, it had been soft enough to come apart. Quickly standing up, he rushed back over to his brother's side, now naked and soaked to the bone. Pulling up the branch, he positioned it on the lower arm, before wrapping it in place with rather crudely with the cloth. Once the knot was tied and secured – as secure as he could make it – he sighed, pulling back on the remainder of his clothing. He reached over for the umbrella and his polar bear, both of which were now muddied by the howling rain next to him. He clutched the latter towards his chest as the chill finally set in, the former propped up over his head and his twin's, who now breathed more evenly.

Why had he done that? It was clear that there was absolutely no one around to tell him to do just what he had done, and if he had clearly remembered, America wasn't exactly his favourite person at that moment. However, whatever frosty feeling of hatred remained inside him was instantly shattered when he happened to steal a glance at his brother.

It was obvious that he had been crying, due to his red nose and puffy eyes, which remained adamantly closed. Canada stared shamelessly, feeling something in him melt. He clenched a fist; _why_? He… couldn't understand it at all. Why had he helped the person he so loathed? A free hand combed messily through his hair in irritation. He didn't get it, he was so confused. He hated America, right? It was all his fault, always all his fault that his precious moments with England were ruined. He had even escaped the house in hopes of avoiding him, but now… why he had he helped him? He didn't understand it, didn't comprehend it. If… one hated someone, one didn't _help _that someone, right? Did that mean he didn't really hate America? _No_, he shook his head adamantly, almost at once rejecting that absurd thought. Of course he did… didn't he?

He didn't know how long he and his sibling were out there, watching the rain pour over the umbrella and mulling over his perplexing thoughts, before he heard footsteps. America's head had fallen onto his shoulder in his restless dreams, and when Canada jolted, it caused the other to awaken. He blinked around groggily, unable to make sense of where he was – obviously – and what he was doing there, but he hadn't had the time to put it all together. A rustle of the bushes alerted them to the presence in front of them, and at once emerged the familiar face of the British man, his face flushed with obvious effort and panic. Upon landing his green eyes on the twins, he rushed forward, kneeling in front of them. Canada noticed that he had no umbrella.

"America! Canada! Th-thank the _Heavens_. I thought… I thought I had lost you both." He pulled them both into a tight embrace, before a yelp of pain came from America. He jumped slightly, shocked, before his eyes landed on the makeshift and crudely done cast. "America, America, what happened to you?" he asked, eyes wild with confusion and panic. The child merely shrugged, before wincing. "Dunno. I think I fell asleep, and when I woke up, my arm was in this", he said, pointing to the cast.

"I… see. Well, it's just as good that you're not any more hurt." The child laughed, grinning. "Of course I'm fine. I'm a _hero_ after all, aren't I?" England merely let out a sigh of relief and sighed, shoulders hunched over in front of him as he relaxed.

It was at this moment that Canada piped up, staring quickly at the cast before addressing his caretaker. "**U-uhm… England… what h-happened? I-I thought you w-went to give A-America a shower…**"

"Oh!" The man started, as though forgetting for an instant that the other was there. "Right, we were, but then this bloody troublemaker ran off when I left the shower running for him. When I turned around, he had disappeared! I've been looking for him for hours; I was looking in the house first. But when I realized I'd searched every nook and cranny, I came outside – the only other place he could be. He must have tripped and fell somewhere. Thank _goodness_ he's alright."

America laughed heartily, standing up shakily and trekking on over to the blonde, one arm raised in expectation. England sighed, looking nervous but more relaxed than he had been at first. Tentatively, he picked up the blue-eyed child in his arms, taking off his coat and placing it over America's head. "Dummy England, this is too big for me!" England shook his head, a tone of firmness in his voice. "No, you will keep that on and you will like it. It's far too bloody cold out here and I don't want you catching a cold." "… What's a cold?" "Never mind."

Standing up, he took careful care not to jostle the broken arm, before glancing back at Canada's form as though seeing him for the first time. "Canada… what happened to your clothes?" "**Oh, n-nothing. I guess I g-got caught on a br-branch or something.**" He shrugged callously. "Well… alright then. I'll be heading in and fixing us some warm scones. Would you mind bringing your umbrella back in? I have to warm America up." With that, he nodded his thanks, cradling the cooing child in his arms and running back to the house at full speed.

Canada stood there, still as a statue. Wordlessly, he bent over and picked up the polar bear and umbrella. He closed the latter, not bothering to place it over his head. He made his way slowly, deliberately, back to the mansion, where he could already hear the sounds of a child and an adult laughing heartily. There was no point in getting worked up anymore.

The answer to his earlier question? Yes, yes, he hated America. On the other hand, _hate _was probably not a strong enough word.

* * *

><p><strong>Woop, chapter 3. I know it took me <em>forever<em> to get it up, but I was so distracted with my other fic. I'm such a bad person, I'm sorry! D: Welp, anyways, here's the next chapter, which is back to Canada's PoV. I'm not sure if you readers have noted the differing time lines yet, but you really will, sooner or later. For now, enjoy this chapter, and have a good day!**

**Oh, and reviews are forever welcome, and thanks in advance!**


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